I reached for my beer on the coffee table, and Marco shifted to give me room. Our hands brushed, just for a second, but I felt his fingers catch mine, a ghost of a touch that could have been accidental.
Except I knew it wasn’t.
When I settled back, I let my shoulder press more firmly against his. Close, but typical during football games. Nothing suspicious.
It was absolutely torture.
Halftime came, and I volunteered to help Alyssa with dessert. Anything to move, to break the precarious proximity that was slowly driving me insane.
In the kitchen, I spooned whipped cream onto slices of pumpkin pie while Alyssa distributed them. Marco came in carrying empty glasses.
“Just setting these by the sink,” he said.
“Okay.”
We were alone. The kitchen was tucked away from the family room, out of immediate view. I relaxed slightly, let my guard down just a fraction.
He moved to set the glasses down at the same time I reached for another plate. Our hands brushed—just like at dinner, just like on the floor, except this time there was no one watching.
His fingers caught mine, held for just a second longer than necessary.
“Hey,” he said quietly, and when I looked up, his eyes were soft, warm. The way he looked at me at home when we didn’t have to hide.
Footsteps in the hallway.
We jerked apart—not dramatically, just a natural step back—just as Alyssa came through the doorway.
She stopped, her eyes moving between us. An expression crossed her face I couldn't interpret.“Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” I said, probably too quickly. “Just grabbing dishes.”
“Right.” Her gaze lingered on us for another moment. She’d seen something. I didn’t know exactly what, but the way she was looking at us—she was assessing, putting pieces together.
“These are ready to go out.” I grabbed two pie plates, needing to move, to break whatever she’d noticed.
“Thanks, Étienne.”
I escaped to the family room, my heart pounding.
Marco followed a minute later with more plates, his expression carefully neutral. But when he settled back down beside me on the floor, he didn’t sit quite as close. Left a few more inches of space between us.
The rest of the day passed in anxious tension. I couldn’trelax, couldn’t stop watching Alyssa, couldn’t stop wondering if she’d figured it out.
Around eight o’clock, people started leaving. Jensen and Kaitlin first, then Kuzmin, Harris, and Reid.
I stood to go too. “We should head out. Early practice and a game tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Kinnunen walked us to the door. “Thanks for coming. Meant a lot to Alyssa to have people here.”
“Thanks for having us,” Marco said.
We said our goodbyes—casual shoulder pats and bro hugs between teammates. When Alyssa hugged me, she held on just a second longer than necessary, and when she pulled back, her eyes were knowing. Kind, but knowing.
I slid into my Jeep, and Marco climbed into the passenger seat. I waited until we’d pulled out of the driveway, driven two blocks, before I pulled over, put the Grand Cherokee in park, and turned to him. I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Come here.”
He unbuckled and leaned across the console. I pulled him close and kissed him hard, needing the contact after hours of distance.
